


Manipulation

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [22]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: One, two, three. The story of furniture shifted to the left and a lack of gravity.





	Manipulation

“Are you-- oh, no, you are.”  


Wilford looked up from his seat on the sofa, relaxed. The sofa moved under him, a millimeter at a time, a momentous effort. Wilford beamed. “Doc, how nice to see you! Would you care to--”

“Help?” Dr. Iplier finished, raising an eyebrow. “No, Wilford, I’m not interested in sharing the punishment for this.” He took a sip of his morning coffee, surveying the room. The scuff marks on the floor were obvious if you weren’t absolutely blind, all the furniture in the room scooted a generous three inches to the left.

Bim popped his head up, flustered, from behind the couch. “It’s just for fun, c’mon!”

“Thanks, Bim, but I’d really rather not.” The Doctor left with a chuckle and a shake of his head. Nothing good could come from this, and he’d rather not be around when it happened. 

He hurried back to his clinic, ignoring the way that the walls were now tinted pink, the doors seeming to shift side to side. Wilford manipulated reality on a regular basis, and all the others could really do was roll their eyes and hope it went back to normal. Eventually. 

Besides, he had work to do. Dr. Iplier downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, locking the door behind him. In a minute, he was sterile, and in another minute, elbow-deep in rotten flesh.  


* * *

Wilford stood up with his hands on his hips, looking around the room. Bim leveraged himself against the couch one last time-- without Wilford’s weight, it slid out of place. “Ta-da!” He jumped back with glasses askew, beaming. 

“This looks... excellent.” Wilford rubbed his hands together, evil, calculating. He stretched, pulling one arm across the other. “Boy, that was some heavy lifting, huh, Trimmer?”

Bim looked from himself, suit crumpled from exertion and drenched in sweat, to Wilford, shirt folded from where he’d napped on the couch, a line of drool clinging to his collar. “Um. Yes?”

Wilford chuckled, clapping Bim on the shoulder in an almost uncomfortably familiar fashion. “Feeling up to some filming?”

Bim sighed. “By filming, do you mean me working camera, lights, and sound while you dance around off-script?”

“Of course!”  


Another sigh. “Fine.”

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time the Host left his room. He’d been writing and recording all day, and his voice was raspy from use. He took a practiced route to the kitchen, feeling the hallway floor slope under his feet. It was warm, here in the office, almost homey. The Host was, for once, secure enough to breathe, feeling the knot loosen in his chest.

He reached a hand towards the kitchen door, expecting the cool metal of the doorknob under his fingers, and found nothing. 

Perhaps he’d miscounted his steps? The Host felt around for a moment, and found the door a bit to the left of where it should have been. He was tired, after all, and he waved it off. 

Oh. Well, the kitchen door was locked. Through the living room, then, and the Host’s stomach grumbled. 

As he retraced his steps towards the living room door, the Host could feel the hallway floor tilt away from him. This was abnormal, to say the least, and his mind flicked to Wilford and Bim’s abnormally quiet studio. Whatever they’d planned, whatever Wilford was manipulating, was something he didn’t want to be around for. By all means, he should lock his door and wait-- but his stomach insisted that the kitchen was a moment way, and well worth the potential minefield in between. 

With a breath, the Host walked into the living room. 

Everything seemed to be in order, his footsteps muffled against the carpet, the slight sound bouncing back to him off of the outlines of a couch, a table, chairs grouped haphazardly around a TV. 

He took four steps before he stumbled over the edge of the sofa, three inches too close to his leg. 

The Host grumbled as he got to his feet, feeling for the offending piece of furniture. It was only now, as he pushed himself upright, that he could really see the entire room shifted to the left. Just enough to be unobtrusive, unnoticed; just enough to be able to trip him up on his practiced route through the room. 

Just enough to be annoying, just enough to be inaccessible. 

The Host was muttering now, guiding himself through the room. This was supposed to be a safe space. Somewhere to rest. And yet, here he was, flexing his powers just to get by. It was a violation of trust, but the Host didn’t know when he’d started trusting this office to begin with. Not the office, he thought, kicking a stool aside. He’d started trusting the other figments. The ‘Egos.’

Judging by the state of the living room, that had been a mistake. 

In the time that it took the Host to make a cup of coffee (cream, cinnamon, no sugar), he’d already made up his mind. He walked back across the living room without tripping, mumbling under his breath, the story really writing itself. The floor was shifting under his feet, and the walls were warping around him-- he didn’t need to see to know that the office was tinted pink. He found his own door, nearly vibrating with the force of holding itself stiff against the ebb and flow of the office. 

With a click, he was inside, laughing quietly to himself. He didn’t have a lot of faith in these other figments, doing what they did, and any trust he’d put in them was long gone-- or so he’d like to think.

“Manipulating reality, Wilford?” the Host muttered, snapping his headphones over his ears. “The Host will show you what manipulation is.”  


* * *

The wave of the Host’s power hit the Googles’ room first. Google_R felt it a beat before it came, looking up from his work with a scowl. 

Google_B was the first to lift off of the floor, so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice his chair and desk floating in midair. It wasn’t until his head brushed the ceiling that he jumped, the pile of scrap and wire in his hands hanging in the air. 

“What is-- what is this?”  


A ball of paper hit him in the back of the head, and Google_B whirled around to find Google_R snickering at him. 

“Childish, Red,” he chided, moving as slowly as he could, but tumbling head over heels just the same.  


“It seems that we have been affected by zero gravity,” Google_G said, upside-down to Google_B’s right. ‘Upside-down’ and ‘to the right’ were relative terms, he supposed, but were relevant all the same. “Collisions seem to have a lower force of impact,” he beeped, scribbling on a notepad, “and it would seem that this is neither Wilford nor Dark’s doing.”

“Then why,” Google_B huffed, fans whirring in his chest, arms folded as he spun in an uncontrolled loop, “are we floating?”  


Google_G pushed Google_B’s shoulder, setting the both of them spiraling in opposite directions. “I would assume that is Bim,” Google_G said, giggling, bumping into Oliver.

Oliver removed his welding mask, barely batting an eye at the table floating past him. “This looks to be the Author’s handiwork,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “While it lasts, some...” his face split into a smile, eyes as bright as the end of his torch, “... _experiments_ may be in order.”

* * *

In the clinic, Dr. Iplier was beginning to rise off of the floor, toes barely brushing puddles of blood. His scalpels were floating at eye level, and he grabbed for them without looking up, too engrossed in the rotting entrails to pay attention to the weightlessness of the world around him. 

It wasn’t until the bile leaking out of the body started floating in the air in front of his face that Dr. Iplier noticed that they’d turned upside down. He looked around, sighing, seeing the dregs of his coffee floating by. 

Well, he couldn’t say that he didn’t warn them.

* * *

“Music!”  


Bim hit a few buttons, fiddling with the volume for a moment, a carefully timed soundtrack starting to play. 

“Lights!”  


Bim sprinted across the studio, tripping over several wires to get to the light board. He flicked them on, sliding up the intensity.

“Camera!”

Another sprint, and Bim managed to turn on the camera before crashing headlong into the prop table.

“ _Action_!” Wilford trotted out on stage, the theme song of  _Warfstache Tonight_  playing to canned applause and laughter. “Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen and all other configurations of being, to Warfstache Tonight!” A fresh round of applause, and Wilford looked expectantly into the shadows behind the camera. 

He cleared his throat, blinking, as the soundtrack began to skip.   


The lights flickered dangerously, and Wilford dropped his smile. “Trimmer?” he called, more annoyed than anything, arms crossed over his chest. “What gives?”

Silence, a shuffling. 

“Bim?” Wilford took a step forward, out of the light, and found that his feet were no longer touching the floor. He was used to feeling weightless, but this was a different kind of floating.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”   


“Bim?” Wilford giggled a little, pushing himself higher off the ground. “What’s up?”

“I AM.”  


Wilford looked up, and lo and behold, like a runaway balloon, Bim was clinging to the rafters as if his life depended on it. “Get back here, we have a show to do!”

“I’m going to fall!”

Even from here, Wilford could see Bim wrapped around a support beam, white-knuckled and pale-faced. “The gravity’s off, silly, you can’t fall!”

Bim gripped the beam a little tighter, looking at the distance between him and the floor with wide eyes. Wilford sighed, rolling his eyes. The show would be delayed, again, but getting to cartwheel through zero gravity was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed. He pushed off of a wall, catapulting himself towards Bim. 

“Just take my hand.”  


“You’re going to drop me.”  


“I would _never_.”  


Bim glared at Wilford, smiling at him with a hint of madness behind his eyes. “No!”

Wilford shrugged, attention immediately refocusing away from Bim’s abject terror. “Suit yourself, killjoy.” There was a slight ‘pop,’ and Wilford surrounded himself in a bright pink bubble. He floated off, spinning his bubble like a hamster ball, bouncing wildly off the walls.

Bim watched him go, pupils blown wide in fear, the feeling of not knowing up from down churning the inside of his stomach. Mostly to himself, he whispered, “Can someone help?” A little louder, he repeated himself. “Someone help!” 

He watched Wilford ricochet past, laughing, tumbling, the walls starting to bend inwards. “I’m stuck in here with a madman,” Bim whispered again, hugging the support beam closer to his chest. 

* * *

Dark was finally clearing his desk for the day when it first happened, his tie floating up into his face. He swatted it away, inwardly scolding his aura. His tie rose again, and the papers started to float with it. Dark looked up, glaring, to find that his aura was happily swirling at the windows, nowhere near his desk. 

Instead, the rest of his office was starting to hang in midair, the smoky curls of his aura unaffected. With a snap, it came back to him, tendrils secure again over his shoulders. Dark pushed himself up, gingerly, and found himself floating towards the ceiling. 

His aura snapped at the air, curious, and Dark struggled to keep his balance without a sense of direction. He bared his teeth, muttering to himself. 

“Wilford.”  


It took him and his aura several minutes tumbling head over heels before he could make his way into the hallway, still seething, aura still steadying itself against the walls. A push off of the wall, and Dark hurtled down the hallway. He counted the doors: the Host’s, silent; the Googles’, accompanied by intermittent banging; the clinic, suspiciously dark; the studio, leaking colored light and screams-- whether of joy or fear, he couldn’t quite tell. He stopped himself at the studio door, practically growling. If there was anything he didn’t need, it was this ridiculousness. 

Dark opened the door. “Wilford,” he started, sneering, “this is really very--”

Dr. Iplier looked up-- down, really-- at him in surprise. “Dark,” he snapped, voice muffled by his mask, “I’d really rather you not bother me while I’m working.” There was a steel to his voice that was unfamiliar at best, and Dark narrowed his eyes. 

“Wrong door,” he said, curt. “There is no need to be rude, Doctor. Apologies.” He shut the door again with a sharp click, shaking his head.  


He could’ve sworn that this was Wilford’s door, unless he’d counted wrong. His aura nudged him, sending him spinning, and Dark waved it away. This zero-gravity mess had to stop. 

Carefully, he pushed himself off of the wall and towards the other door that could possibly be Wilford’s, _assuming_ he’d counted wrong. 

“Wilford, this is--”  


“Again?” Dr. Iplier looked across at him, scalpel poised as droplets of questionable bodily fluid hung suspended in the air. “Dark, I have to insist--”  


“Wrong door.” Dark slammed it shut, a nagging panic that he usually associated with Wilford’s rampages starting to tug at his throat. Reality was beginning to not make sense, unpredictable, and if there was anything he hated, it was things not under control.   


This was ridiculous. A hunch struck him, and Dark looked back at the door he’d just closed, the Doctor on the other side. The door across the hall, also with the Doctor on the other side. Things were changing, but he was nothing if not adaptable. 

Carefully, Dark opened the door again. 

A pink bubble flew past him, cackling, and he jumped back. “Wilford?!”

“Dark!” Bim’s voice echoed from the shadows near the ceiling, desperate. “Help, please!”  


“Wilford!” Dark snapped, ignoring Bim completely.   


The pink bubble paused long enough for Dark to see Wilford’s silhouette inside, laughing at him, tumbling backwards, head over heels. 

“Will,” Dark growled again, gritted teeth. “What did you _do_?”  


“I didn’t _do_ anything, Darkipoo,” Wilford said, stopping laughing long enough to respond, voice still slightly muffled by the bubblegum. “Blame someone else, why don’t you?”  


Dark bristled, eyes flicking from Wilford’s bubble, spinning again, to Bim, barely visible in the rafters.

“Send help!” Bim yelled, and Dark slammed the door as Wilford went whizzing across the room again.   


Safe in the hallway, Dark curled his hands into fists, letting his aura flick angrily around his shoulders, letting himself spin in place. They were all so childish, so unfocused. The wasted potential in the office was a sight to behold at the best of times, but this was beyond even that.

He took a breath and counted to three, the anxiety dissipating with the clamp of smoke against his neck. It was replaced by a stomach full of ice, the edge of a knife against his spine. Dark’s aura hovered, humming, as he opened the door for the third time.

“Hello, Darkiplier.” Google_R floated past the door, upside down, scribbling madly on a notepad. “Can we help you?”  


Behind him, Oliver, complete with welding mask and protective glove, threw a ball of scrap metal at Google_G, similarly outfitted. Google_B, trying to type on a sideways computer, gave Dark a little wave. 

“Yes,” Dark bared his teeth, eyes glinting. “What, exactly, is going on?”  


Muffled behind his mask, Oliver responded. “The Author has left us in a state of zero gravity for the time-being, but judging by your distress, I would assume that other things in the office are being manipulated.”

“Right. Bim is calling for help.” It was curt and short, but betrayed a depth of emotion that Dark hadn’t expected from himself.  


“ _What_ else has been manipulated?” Google_G perked up, turning to look at Dark, and the ball of metal hit him in the shoulder, sending him reeling.   


“Things are _about_ to be manipulated.” The door slammed, a cold draft in the room, a strange echo to Dark’s voice. Google_G threw the ball back at Oliver as Google_B frowned, beeping, but not speaking.   


* * *

“Boys?” Amy knocked on the front door before opening it, peeking into the main living room. Kathryn, then Mark stepped in behind her.   


“I still think this is a bad idea,” Mark muttered, closing the door, stepping a little closer to her.   


Kathryn rolled her eyes at him, the first to walk through the office. “It’ll be fine, you worrywart. Who doesn’t love cookies?”

“I still don’t think you should’ve brought them cookies.”  


“They’re people, too,” Amy half-scolded, following Kathryn to the back door that separated their dimension from the Egos’. “And they’re pumpkin spiced cookies, I’m sure they’ll love them.”  


“If you say so,” Mark grumbled good-naturedly, stomping after them. No one knew the figments better than he did, seeing as they’d stalked him for years, not to mention his and Dark’s... relationship. No one had more reason to be wary of them, and he thought his caution was justified.   


The others were a lot more optimistic about the Egos. Tyler tolerated them, really, thought that they were illogical, but useful. It was an objective view, but an unsettling one at times. They all looked and sounded like Mark, after all, and acted like people. Kathryn’s stance was a lot closer to what Mark considered sane: she was more guarded with the figments, considering they had magical powers and several homicides under their belts. Still, she treated them as friends. 

Friends. Mark shook his head as they gathered around the back door, practically vibrating with the force of separating their worlds. The Egos were friends, now. 

Ethan and Amy treated them as friends, on good terms with each of the figments-- except Dark, but then again, Amy was trying to get to him, too. She wanted to bring them fresh-baked cookies, and combined with Kathryn insisting that it would be ‘fun,’ Mark couldn’t think of any reason to say no, besides making sure that he came with them. 

Well, this might have been a reason to say no. 

As soon as Kathryn stepped through the door, she yelped. "Well, that’s not normal.”

“What’s wrong?” Mark jumped forward, looking left and right, scrambling into the hallway. After a moment, he couldn’t tell up from down, and his feet left the ground.   


“Hey, you’re tall now!” Amy held the plate of cookies to her chest, laughing, spinning a little in the air.   


Mark spluttered, seeing Kathryn laugh with her. “This is-- this isn’t good! We should--”

“What, you want to leave?” Amy poked at him, sending him tumbling back. “C’mon, this is like being in space!”

“I bet Will did this,” Kathryn said, catching herself on the wall. “Just another day in the office, right?” She and Amy laughed again, and Mark stopped himself from panicking.   


“It’s really not safe,” Mark insisted, his protests losing heart as Amy righted herself, cookies somehow still carefully balanced on the plate, and started to float in the direction of the kitchen.

Kathryn caught his eye as they pushed themselves along the hallway after Amy, a tiny nod, a glance of understanding. Good intentions aside, the Egos weren’t people to be taken lightly. 

The scent of pumpkin spice followed them, wafting down the hall.

* * *

“Wilford, can you please get me down from here?” Bim had managed to hug the support beam with his entire body, legs and arms knotted around it.   


Only the echo of his own voice came back to him, the rest of the studio shadowed and empty after Dark had left. Wilford’s bubble was nowhere to be seen, and his laughter nowhere to be heard. Ordinarily, it would be a welcome respite, but just now, silence was scarier. 

“Wilford?” he called again, hesitant. Panic had long since stopped squeezing his chest, but alone and weightless, a heavy sort of hopelessness was settling inside him. “Will?”  


A quiet buzz answered him, like a swarm of bees or a whirring fan. Bim looked around, seeing nothing. The buzz came closer. 

“Hello?”  


A spotlight flicked to life, the buzz now more like a helicopter, and Bim squinted into it, searching for a face.

“Hello, Bim.” A more-robotic-than-usual voice came from a speaker behind the light, and a whirring, flying machine the size of a condor lighted on the support beam. “This is Google, Model Blue, speaking.”  


Bim loosened his grip on the beam for the first time, reaching a hand out towards the drone. “Blue?” Relief, disbelief.

A scuffle came over the speaker. “Model Red is piloting, hello.”

“Hi, Red,” Bim said, inching closer, squinting. He could just barely see the whirling blades that kept the drone upright, the mechanical claws that grasped the beam in ginger talons.  


At full volume, the speaker blared, “Green is here too, hello!” A pause, the sound of angry beeping, and Bim was close enough to find a handhold on the leg of the drone. 

“Bim can hear all of us, you figurative  _calculators_.” Oliver’s snark came across with a burst of static. Bim pulled the drone a little closer to him, both hands on the claws.  


“If you would secure yourself, Bim, I believe we can guide you to the ground.” Google_B spoke with measured annoyance, frustrated whirrs in the background.

“Er, thank you,” Bim said, hands shaking a little around the drone. A buzz, and it started to lift off again, now pulling him with it. Bim took a breath, letting go of the support beam entirely, and he was floating. 

“AAAAAAAHH!”  


A grumble of static. “Please do not scream.”  


Bim swallowed his fear, trying not to look down. “Could you-- could you get me to the kitchen, please, Googs?”

An affirmative beep, and the scent of pumpkin spice drifted through the air.

* * *

“The Host would appreciate it if you had knocked before coming in, Dark.”  


“And _I_  would have appreciated it if you hadn’t subjected us all to anti-gravity.” Dark pushed himself closer to the Host, aura stopping him just short of a collision. “And yet, here we are.”  


The Host floated with his typewriter in front of him, papers surrounding him in haphazard clouds. Books levitated inches above the ground, even in weightlessness, too bulky to fly around the room. The Host came to the end of his line with a slight ding, and sighed in more frustration than annoyance as he turned to Dark. “Is this such a _problem_  that the great Darkiplier has descended from his office to speak to the Host?”

“It’s a _risk_ ,” Dark snapped, eyes narrowing, aura flickering.   


“An observer would think that Darkiplier actually cared about the rest of the Egos.” A slight smile tugged at the Host’s mouth as he picked up the latest page, running his fingers over the braille.   


It would have taken every ounce of Dark’s control to stop himself from ripping the paper out of the Host’s hand, and just now, he couldn’t be bothered to restrain himself that much. “One would almost think,” he growled, torn page crumpled in his fist, “that you, Host, are growing careless.”

“As if.” The Host didn’t flinch, loading another paper into his typewriter. A few seconds of typing, loud in the silence of Dark’s fuming. “The gravity will go back to normal in an hour or so.” A ding. “For now, the Host advises Darkiplier to, as Wilford would say, ‘chill out.’“  


* * *

“Thanks again, Googles,” Bim muttered, still a little pink around the ears.   


The drone whirred quietly down the hallway, pulling Bim along with one arm looped around its leg. “You are welcome,” one of the Googles beeped, sounding amused. A moment of silence, and the drone beeped again. “It sounds as if we have company in the living room. Would you like to go there instead?”

“Company?” Bim grinned. “Uh, sure!”  


“Rerouting.”

The drone buzzed, speeding up, and Bim’s tie flapped in his face as they flew towards the living room. From inside, the distinctive sound of laughter and crunching food. Bim’s hand started to slip, but looking ahead, he wasn’t afraid of falling. 

Bim floated in the hallway, wholly on his own for a moment as the drone pulled ahead. No, he figured, he wasn’t afraid anymore. The smell of blood of the studio, the cool of the beams, the ringing of total silence, the feeling of his intestines floating, twisting in his throat: it was all much easier to believe in the darkness of the rafters. In the brightness of the hall, worn carpet, walls well-loved by gunshots and blades, questionable banging behind every door, Bim could feel his heart loosen in his chest. This was all he’d ever known, after all. The terror of Wilford, the companionship of the Googles, even the looming shadow of Dark. The Doctor’s weary smile, the Host’s quiet assurance. These hallways, this office, though maybe not in zero gravity.

Bim smiled to himself. He was never afraid for long, not while he was here. After all, nothing could hurt them in the office, the only home he’d ever known.

* * *

“Don’t you dare,” Dark snarled, a hand at the Host’s collar, “take this so lightly.” Black, liquid smoke started to swirl around the two of them, closing the gap, blotting out the light. “Bring the office back to normal, before I’m forced to do it myself.”

The Host pushed Dark back, not lifting a finger, an unseen kick to the gut. Dark went spiraling backwards, full speed into a bookshelf with a bone-breaking thump. 

“Do not. Touch. The Host.” It was a growl, a threat, and the Host turned his back.

It was pain, too familiar, and Dark gritted his teeth as his head slammed into the wood. Spines and corners, all sharp edges, bit into his back. The room was spinning, the Host typing. A ringing in his ears.

One. He leaned his head to the right, breathing deeply. There was a loud _crack_  as his neck shifted into place. 

Two. He snapped his head to the left, feeling bones pop into and out of place. The ringing in his ears was louder, aura curling along his arms. 

Three. Dark huffed, opening his eyes slowly. The room was still, and he was in control. Black smoke lashed at the corner of his vision, impatient, bared teeth and shining claws. 

“That,” he growled, pushing himself away from the wall, “was a mistake.” Dark floated for a moment before his aura whipped him forward, the candles floating above their heads snuffed out.   


The Host turned just a beat too late, hearing but not seeing how close Dark was. He hit the floor with an uncomfortable _thunk_ , the breath knocked from his lungs. Before the Host could summon the will to narrate Dark into a heap of ash, a tendril of smoke, wet and heavy, beat at him again. His shoulder hit a wall, then something he recognized as a bookshelf. He was spinning, too fast to think, too disoriented to find his place in his own room. 

Dark’s aura turned into a tornado, flipping the Host up and down, flinging him around the room. Dark was still, eyes narrowed, feeling blood beginning to pool behind his tongue. 

This had been a mistake. 

* * *

"...and Bim screamed, and then we were all floating!” Wilford waved his hands in the air, spinning head over heels, chortling. 

“So it wasn’t you?” Kathryn reached across Wilford to the half-empty plate of cookies in Amy’s hands, rolling her eyes.   


Wilford giggled, clapping his hands together, crumbs spilling from his mouth. “I think was Dark or the Host,” he said, slightly muffled around a mouthful of pumpkin spice. 

“Not Bim?” Mark floated almost sideways next to them, arms folded over his chest.   


Wilford’s eyebrows raised as he swallowed, a pause. “Speak of the devil, eh?”

With the whirring of a drone, Bim drifted into the room. “Amy, Kathryn! Mark!”

“Bim!” Amy left the plate of cookies floating in midair as she launched herself towards him, taking his shoulders in a hug.   


“Googles?” Mark said, eyeing the drone with an expression close to impressed.  


“Wilford!” Wilford yelled, delighting in the chaos.  


“Hello,” the Googles beeped over the speaker, drone hovering in the air with motors off. The buzzing cut out, replaced by Wilford’s giggling.  


“I was stuck in the rafters,” Bim explained, shooting a glare at Wilford over Amy’s shoulder. Amy drew back, ruffling his hair. “The Googles got me down.”

“You weren’t _stuck_ ,” Wilford muttered, grabbing another cookie. Kathryn giggled into her hand, watching Amy pull Bim closer to the plate, before Wilford could finish them all.   


“Bim,” Mark furrowed his brow, watching him stuff two cookies in his mouth, “did _you_  turn the gravity off?”  


Bim shook his head, distracted, and gave Amy a thumbs-up. She flashed him a smile, floating backwards a little. “Kathryn helped with the icing!” Bim turned to Kathryn with another thumbs-up, cheeks bulging, and she pushed his shoulder, sending him flying back with a laugh.

“Googles?” Mark addressed the drone a little warily.  


There was the mumble of several voices, then: “We believe that this is the Host’s doing, Mark.”

“Is it...” Mark trailed off, still on edge.   


A mechanical chuckle. “For the time-being, we believe that the building is safe, so long as you do not injure yourselves.”

“Please,” one of the others cut in, “our insurance does not cover anti-gravity damages.”  


Mark couldn’t tell whether it was a joke or not, but chuckled anyway. “Do you know when things will go back to, uh--” he looked around, Kathryn now seeing how far she could throw Bim while Amy and Wilford laughed, “--normal?”

“Impossible to tell. We suggest you enjoy it while you can. We, on the other hand, are performing some--” a loud _bang_ , and a pulse of static, “--experiments.”  


“Right.” Mark shook his head, finally grinning despite the fact that he was upside down, the couch floating above him. “So, Google, tell me more about this drone of yours.”  


“No nerd talk,” Wilford scolded, and Amy nodded in agreement. “Only cookies, here.”  


“You have to share, Will.”  


“Never mind, then.” Wilford glared at Amy, sticking his tongue out. spiraling backwards.  


Bim laughed, and Kathryn pushed him away, laughing.

Mark looked around at them all: Bim sputtering, spinning head over heels; Amy, telling Kathryn off; Wilford, systemically licking the cookies, one by one, on the plate behind her back; Kathryn, smacking his hand away. All of them happy, all of them laughing. The smell of pumpkin spice in the air. Maybe, just maybe, peaceful. Mark felt his shoulders start to relax.

* * *

The Host was slammed into the floor, muttering to himself in fits and bursts. Dark was rolling in the air, laughing, sneering. His aura recoiled, as if it had won. It retreated, swirling around Dark’s shoulders, the ringing higher than ever.   


“Turn the gravity back to normal, Host,” Dark snapped, and the Host could feel his disdain from across the room. “And that’s an _order_.”  


“The Host takes orders from no one.” The aura preoccupied, the Host pushed himself up, turning his head in Dark’s direction. “Least of all Darkiplier.”  


Had Dark known any better, he would have run. But no, here he was, caught up in his own tornado of pride, a puppet with strings long since cut-- but a puppet all the same. The Host bared his teeth, and could feel the blood running down his cheeks.

As Dark laughed, the Host began to mumble. “Darkiplier has the sudden, violent realization that he has made a mistake.” 

The ringing cut out, leaving them in silence, Dark’s laugh echoing, then fading. “Host,” Dark snarled, “what are you--”

“Darkiplier fails to differentiate up from down, shadow from light,” the Host went on, pushing himself back as Dark’s aura started to swarm him, static, panic. “There is no control here. The Host is in control. The Host is the only one in control.”  


“Stop this!” It was a command, shrieked from the center of writhing smoke. It carried the whiplash of hatred, but little influence. A spray of sea foam, without the force of a wave behind it.  


The Host smiled, tasting blood, the rush that came with power. Dark had nothing, here. “The walls begin to swim, warping, twisting before Darkiplier’s eyes. His aura is suddenly lighter than air, clawing at him, but never able to touch him. Darkiplier is not safe anymore.”

A scream, more frustration than pain, echoed through the room, and the Host jerked back with his hands over his ears. They were floating in near blackness, the candles above casting deep shadows across their faces. 

The scream cut off, horribly abrupt, and the Host felt a jolt of satisfaction go through him. Hands loosely cupped over his ears, he let his shoulders sag for a moment.

A moment too long. 

Silent without his aura, without the scuff of footsteps on the floor, Dark crashed into the Host at full speed, knocking them both into a wall. “This...” Dark huffed, and the Host felt miasma fleck his face, “...is downright _childish_  of you, _Author_.”

The Host pushed Dark away, breathing hard. “ _The Host_ will not take orders from anyone,” he snapped again, hearing Dark collide with a desk. “And Darkiplier has no right to demand such a thing.”

“Make the office normal again.”  


“Get out.”  


Dark bared his teeth. “You’re only making things worse for yourself,” he murmured, floating as silently as he could in a circle, drawing himself closer. “Let me make this easy for you.”

“Get _out_.” The Host turned his head, tracking Dark’s movements. “Darkiplier can learn to be patient.” He pushed himself away from the wall, drifting back to his typewriter, spilled ink hanging in the air. “If Darkiplier could learn the manners of a toddler, perhaps this trouble could have been avoided.”  


“Now, that’s no way to speak to a friend.” He was changing tack, relying more on silver tongue than bullet. Dark closed the gap between them, seeing the way that the Host held himself stiff. So much power, gone to waste in a reclusive mind. Withering away. It was a shame, really. Pitiful. Dark grit his teeth and lunged.  


The Host felt the rush of Dark’s aura towards him, needle-sharp and cold as ice. His back was turned, but both he and Dark suspended in midair. 

“Have it your way,” the Host growled, a sudden flinch. “The office’s gravity is once again restored.”  


* * *

Wilford was fighting with Bim over the last cookie when it happened. Amy and Kathryn were upside down by the windows, admiring the sunset, the furniture in the room floating around them. Mark, between trying to calm down both Bim and Wilford, was looking over the drone with palpable excitement. “An engineer at heart,” Amy teased. 

There was a snap, more like breaking bone than clicking fingers. 

The furniture hit the ground first, heavy clunks as it fell into place exactly where it had been-- rather, where Wilford and Bim had pushed it.

The couch sagged, and there was a loud _wumph_  as Amy and Kathryn happily collapsed onto it, giggling. The cushions easily caught them, and they sank in as gravity pulled them down again.

Bim landed with an ungraceful belly flop on the coffee table, the breath knocked out of his lungs. A moment, and he caught the drone in outstretched arms as it fell from above him. 

From the speaker on the drone came a series of clangs, metal on metal on carpet. Static, the sound of a microphone falling, and Google_B’s voice crackled through. “Thank you, Bim.” In the background, loud, angry beeping. 

Mark hit the floor with an unapologetic _thump_ , groaning. A desk fell across his legs, momentarily pinned to the floor. “Ow.”

“Ha _ha_ , I win! I-- hey, what gives?” Everyone looked up in unison to see Wilford still floating above their heads, the last cookie clutched triumphantly in his hand. “Well, what are you silly people doing down there?”  


Amy laughed, shaking her head. Kathryn nudged her shoulder, whispering, and their faces split into identical grins. “Get down here, Will.” 

With a puff of pink smoke, Wilford landed on the ground, wholly under gravity’s control again. “What?” He stuffed the last of the cookie in his mouth, ignoring Bim’s glare. 

As Bim got to his feet, still balancing the drone in one hand. The drone beeped, a red light flashing.

“Bim,” Google_R’s voice came over, terse, “the drone appears to be out of power. Could you kindly bring it back to us?”  


Bim looked from the drone to the room, warm, laughing, happy. “Can’t you just--”

“Please,” Google_G interjected, soft, and Bim rolled his eyes.   


“Alright, alright, I’m on my way.” He bowed to the humans, then to Wilford, before hoisting the drone in his arms and shuffling down the hall.   


Wilford gave Bim a mock salute as he turned to go, then looked down at Mark, face buried in the carpet. “Are you, uh...” He nudged him with a none-too-gentle toe.

“I’m fine,” Mark huffed, shifting. Wilford rolled his eyes, wordless, and the desk across Mark’s legs lifted itself up.   


“Wilford,” Kathryn pulled him back to attention. “D’you want to do something with us?”  


“What would we be doing?” Wilford drawled, crossing his arms.   


Kathryn stood, pulling Amy with her. Together, they linked arms with Wilford, pulling him towards the kitchen. “Baking, of course. Do you know how to use an oven?”

“I know how to use hot... things.”  


“Good enough!” They whisked him away, giggling, leaving Mark struggling to his feet.  


“Guys, wait!”  


* * *

The return of gravity was sudden, heavy, and Dark groaned. A bookshelf had fallen across him as the entire room had crashed to the ground, books, wires, ink, blood, across the floor. 

Blood. Dark spat a mouthful of the stuff out, a blackened stain on the carpet in front of him. His body ached, bones bent out of place, muscles straining at every movement. This was a fight that neither of them could win. 

Dark’s aura growled, smoke pushing against the shelf pinning him to the ground. His arms were heavier than they should have been. Dark groaned again, hair falling into his face. This was ridiculous; childish, really. All he wanted was to keep the office safe. To keep himself in control. To bide his time. 

He didn’t realize that he was thinking out loud, hissing through gritted teeth, until the words had left is lips in a bitter whisper. “It’s not fair, is it?”

Footsteps. The Host’s shoes, in line with his face. One kick was all it would take.

The Host squatted down, closer to eye level. “Are you done?” The hint of snark, familiar.

“Shut up.” Dark grumbled, starting to pull himself up, legs still caught under the weight. He stopped short, stuck, and his aura pulsed in frustration.   


The Host stood, a hand under the offending shelf, and lifted. The weight pinning Dark to the ground lifted, for a moment, and he slithered out.

“Thank you,” he muttered, grudging, straightening his crumpled suit.   


The Host let the bookshelf fall, settling to the ground with the slightest puff of dust. He turned away, an unreadable expression. A murmur, then: “Please get out, Dark.”

To his credit, Dark recovered quickly. “The office is back to normal, I suppose,” he sneered, “and I have work to attend to. Good day, Host.”

“The Host always welcomes your company, Darkiplier.” A tone of voice that suggested just the opposite.   


Dark left, stepping over piles of books and paper, ink seeping into the carpet, dropping his sneer at the door. Some days were easier than others. Some days, he was assured of his own power, his own goals; others, not so much. Other days, the power of his own manipulation overcame him, aura buzzing in his ears, feeling weightless. He straightened his back, clicking the door shut. He had to keep going. One, two, three, and he kept going. 

The Host listened to Dark step outside, closing the door behind him. He took a breath. His room was near destroyed, most books knocked off their shelves, recording equipment a jumble of wires and shattered screens. He’d decided to call the office his home in good faith, made it clear enough that he was to be left alone. It was home, but for the first time, there were people to share it with. People that couldn’t leave him alone. He shook his head, fingers finding the upright back of his chair. The Host had been folded into the office against his will, but he was never really alone, here. Now, he was finding that he didn’t want to be.

* * *

Mark stumbled towards the kitchen, Amy and Kathryn and Wilford already laughing inside. The prospect of Wilford with an oven was almost too terrifying to bear.

He was on his feet, still a little dizzy from the suddenness of gravity, and started to hurry after them. What a wonderful life, he almost paused to think, that the worst fear in his life was a violently pink version of himself with access to a heat source. How wonderful, that he could live like this. It was all wonderful, at least for a moment. 

The next moment, Mark went sprawling, foot curled to his chest. “F-F-FUCK!”

Amy poked her head out of the kitchen, a wide smile still on her face. “You okay?”

Mark looked from his throbbing toe to Amy, framed in the doorway with the light of a grease fire on her face. She was so happy here, among friends. At full volume: “I STUBBED MY TOE.”

Amy giggled, looking as if she knew she should feel bad, but didn’t particularly care. Kathryn, wet towel thrown over her shoulder, then Wilford, mustache singed, looked out behind her. One by one, they began to giggle with her, until the three of them were doubled over in a fit of laughter. 

Mark, eyes level with the floor, finally saw the scuff marks on the carpet: all of the furniture moved a generous three inches to the left. 

“Wilford!”  


Yeah, maybe everything wasn’t so wonderful. Yeah, there was still a serial killer that moved all the furniture when he wasn’t looking. At least, Mark thought, the killer robots next door didn’t _actively_ try to kill him. At least their resident demon had never _succeeded_ in killing him. 

Dark, storming out of the Host’s room, thought that something was... off, here. For once, he wasn’t so upset that he’d failed to kill Mark thus far. He wasn’t even upset that the Host had gotten the best of him. The office was at peace again, and for now, that was enough to keep him going.

For now, this was more than enough. 


End file.
